


Welcome

by callmecookie



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Possession, aborted suicide attempt, corpses abound, entrails, very a lot of blood
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2014-01-13
Packaged: 2018-01-06 23:07:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1112598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmecookie/pseuds/callmecookie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek strains to hear Stiles’s shallow, controlled breath, the distant thud of his galloping heart, and when his voice does spill out, Derek flinches away from the hitching, agonized sob. “I don’t know what to do,” Stiles says, and it sounds like a plea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The results of NaNoWriMo 2013! I wanted to spend more time polishing this, to be honest, but 3B's about to air and, if the promos are any indication, there's going to be some overlap. So I'm posting it now, before I have a chance to get confused.
> 
> Thanks so much to [kedreeva](kedreeva.tumblr.com) for the speedy beta (and for getting me through NaNo!); to [renqa](2amsugarrush) for drawing such inspirational horror; to [omni](cursedtruth), [monica](todaythesamesky), and [pocket](tinyfics) for talking me down from various ledges, and to the rest of the pack (you know who you are) for being a constant source of encouragement and delight.

 

After Derek leaves Beacon Hills, Scott is the first one to call. It’s nothing particularly troubling, mostly just an update. Isaac is doing well, Deaton’s still mysterious, no one’s seen Peter. “Stiles isn’t sleeping,” he says, with a note in his voice like Derek should pay attention.

Peter is second. It’s been a few weeks – not long enough for Derek to worry, but long enough that he’s curious. “There have been bodies,” his uncle drawls, and Derek isn’t sure what clarification to demand first. What kind of bodies? How many? Where? “You might want to think about swinging by.”

The third call is from Stiles, and of course that’s the one Derek misses. He’s been out all night, running under the full moon with the pack that’s hosting himself and Cora while they sort out their family’s affairs. He flops into bed at dawn and sees his phone blinking _1 Missed Call_.

The voicemail is a tense two minutes of almost-silence. Derek strains to hear Stiles’s shallow, controlled breath, the distant thud of his galloping heart, and when his voice does spill out, Derek flinches away from the hitching, agonized sob. “I don’t know what to do,” Stiles says, and it sounds like a plea. The line goes dead.

Derek drops the phone, rolls back out of bed, and starts packing.

 

***

 

He almost goes to Stiles first, even turns down his street before he catches himself and heads for Scott’s house. Naturally, that familiar blue jeep is already parked out front.

Scott opens the door before he’s halfway up the drive, which is good. He’s paying attention. “Derek?” Scott says, brows furrowing. Stiles’s head pops up over his shoulder, eyes wide and a little bloodshot. Derek nods deference to the alpha, but his gaze zeroes in on Stiles. 

“I got your message.”

Scott swings around with an incredulous look. Stiles’s chin drops, his darting eyes avoiding them both. “Right,” he says, under his breath, “That happened.”

“ _What_ happened? What message?” Scott’s eyebrows leap on his forehead, like his face can’t decide if it’s more surprised or confused. “When did you call Derek?”

Stiles shrugs. Derek drags his focus back to answer. “Two days ago, during the full moon.” He glances at Stiles again. “I missed the call.” He thought he’d been sorry _then_. Seeing Stiles now, gaunt and wan, deep bruises sagging beneath his eyes – he wouldn’t have stopped to pack.

“Well,” Scott says, looking between them, “I was about to call you, so… good timing.” Derek raises his eyebrows, and Scott opens his mouth, hesitates, then shakes his head, waving him inside.

The smell of blood hits Derek before they reach the back door, thick and sour with time, and he tenses, pushing Stiles behind him. The boy doesn’t protest, barely even reacts, and that alarms Derek almost as much as the scent of death looming closer.

“Scott,” he says, wary, warning, but Scott just looks at him and opens the door.

It takes him a moment to recognize Deucalion – well, Deucalion’s head – mutilated in what can only have been a grisly death, the flesh of his throat torn rather than severed, congealed blood oozing down the wooden pike on which he’s mounted.

“Where’d they even get the pike, is what I’d like to know,” Stiles mutters. Scott wordlessly points to the edge of the back porch, where one rung has been ripped clear of the railing. “Oh.”

“Did you find anyone else’s scent on it?” Derek feels sharp, awake in a way he hasn’t since he left Beacon Hills, and dread rises like nausea in the back of his throat. It’s never going to be over, not for him. Why did he think he could get away?

“What? Dude, I could smell _plenty_ from here.” Scott wrinkles his nose, grimacing, and Derek rolls his eyes.

“Come on,” he says. Scott’s nose will be better than his, now.

He lets Scott take the lead, but draws even with him as they approach. Scott’s gagging dramatically, so Derek says, “Focus on the scent, not what it’s coming from. Try to isolate anything unnatural, unexpected.”

“A head on a spike in my back yard is pretty unnatural,” says Scott.

Derek frowns. “The scent of the person who put it here should still be there, underneath the blood.” But even as he says it, he realizes it isn’t true. He’s peeled back the stench of decay, the persistent tang of blood, but beneath it… there’s nothing. Not just nothing unusual, but an aggressive _absence_ , swallowing up Derek’s senses and pressing him back empty-handed. A snarl escapes him unbidden, and his claws are pushing at his fingertips before he controls himself.

Scott’s wolfed out in an instant. “What’d you smell?” he says, pinning Derek for the first time with alpha-red eyes. “What is it?”

Derek breathes out, swallows his fangs. “I have no idea.”

They’re words he hasn’t said in a while – couldn’t _afford_ to say – and maybe he still shouldn’t, ought not leave this burden on Scott’s inexperienced shoulders. It isn’t his decision to make, anymore.

But he didn’t come back to spectate. “It’s not one of us,” he says, then clarifies, “not a werewolf. There’s no scent.”

Scott’s frowning at the carnage, his nostrils flaring as he investigates for himself. “But that’s…” He shakes his head, confused. “Everything has a scent.”

“Could it be Ms. Blake?” Stiles is sitting on the steps of the back porch, watching them from a few yards away. “We did kind of… misplace her. What if she’s still walking around, trying to complete her, uh, mission?”

Derek looks back at the pike, calling up the tranquil fury that had gotten him through the final hours of Jennifer’s presence. _Could_ she have done this? Could magic be what’s masking the killer’s scent?

Could she really still be _alive_?

“I didn’t know her as well as–” Scott glances at Derek, cuts himself off. “But doesn’t this seem a little straightforward, for her? There’s no threefold death, no special tools or cryptic symbols… just, y’know.” He gestures at the disembodied head on a stick. “Dead.”

“That’s because it’s not part of a ritual.” Stiles is texting, eyes on his phone as he leans against the unbroken side of the railing. “It’s a message.”

“A threat,” Derek agrees, nodding grimly.

“Is it?” Scott looks between them, unconvinced. “Deucalion caused a lot of trouble for the pack. Maybe someone thought they were doing us a favor.”

“Or maybe it’s both.” Stiles stands up, pocketing his phone. “A rebuke. Someone thought you let him off too easy.” He rolls his shoulders, not looking away from Scott. “They wouldn’t be the only ones.”

Scott’s mouth tightens, and he holds Stiles’s gaze evenly. Neither speaks, but it’s clear they’re rehashing a discussion they’ve had several times before.

After a moment, Stiles rolls his eyes, turning away. “We gotta clean this up before your mom gets home, dude,” he says, shoving his hands in the pocket of his jacket. “I’ll get some trash bags.”

He disappears into the house, but Scott keeps looking after him, eyes hard and hurting.

Derek crouches down to examine Deucalion’s head. “How long has this been here?”

“Since I got home, at least,” says Scott, dragging his attention back to Derek. “I went out the front door this morning, so I don’t know if it happened overnight, or while I was at school.”

“Has anything like this happened before?” He looks up. “Peter said–”

“Peter?” Scott starts. “You saw him?”

“He called,” Derek says, rising slowly. “Said there’ve been bodies.”

Scott nods. “A few. They’ve all been ruled accidental. Drowning, car crash, anaphylactic shock – all at different edges of the woods. Stiles’s been poking around, but it kinda just seemed like the town was just having a streak of really bad luck.” He glances at the head. “Not as much, now.”

He frowns, looking back at Derek. “Is that all he said? Nothing about, uh… how he’s doing?”

“How he’s _doing_?” Derek raises his eyebrows. “I didn’t ask.”

Scott sighs. “Dude, I’ve only seen him once since you left, and he, like… _ran away_.” Apparently the look on Derek’s face adequately conveys how much sense that _doesn’t_ make. “I was at Macy’s, looking for a birthday present for my mom, and he was on the other side of the– y’know, the counters with the makeup and perfume and stuff. When he saw me, he looked… it was like he was scared. And then he turned around and practically ran out of there.” He shakes his head, wide-eyed. “It might be the weirdest thing that’s ever happened to me – including becoming a werewolf.”

Fuck. Derek is going to have to talk to Peter. 

“I’ll look into it,” he says.

 

***

 

Peter had been completely characteristically persistent in his attempts to make sure Derek had the address of his new apartment. Between the texting it at random intervals from various numbers, leaving it on post-it notes in any number of books and on all visible surfaces and walls at different points, and writing it in sharpie marker on the inside of the refrigerator, his uncle had somehow managed to burn the numbers into Derek’s brain, despite his very best efforts to ignore the information.

With this in mind, Derek expected to be greeted enthusiastically -- certainly with no small measure of smugness, at the very least. But the look on his uncle’s face when he opens the door is one of grim resignation rather than delight. “You shouldn’t have come back,” he says, and he looks… _tired_.

Derek just blinks at him for a moment, shaken. He isn’t sure he’s ever seen Peter like this before.

Peter sighs. “Well, you’d better come in.”

“How’s Cora?” he asks lightly, leading Derek into his spacious kitchen. Derek frowns at the countertop, shaking his head when his uncle lifts two boxes of tea for him to choose from.

“Fine,” Derek says, staring at the swirling marble. “She’s on a nature reserve upstate, blowing off some steam.”

“Good,” says Peter, adding sugar to a second mug of steeping tea.

“She needed some space,” Derek says, not even sure why he’s telling him. “I’m only going to be here for a few days.”

Peter stills in increments, raising his eyes to Derek’s. “You can’t fix this in a few days, nephew.”

Derek sucks in a breath through his nose, something stronger than impatience but not quite anger slicing through him. “What do you know, Peter?”

“I know you can’t fight this,” says Peter, leaning across the counter to hold his gaze. “You can’t kill it. None of us can.” His lips quirk in a twisted mockery of a smile. “You won’t even want to, once you realize what’s happened.”

“What do you mean?” A low growl kicks up in the back of Derek’s throat, involuntary, but he doesn’t move.

“Oh, Derek.” If he didn’t know his uncle, Derek would say the look in his eyes was pity, maybe even sympathy. “Get out while you still can. Just go.”

That’s too far, and Derek snarls, reaching across the counter to yank Peter in by the front of his shirt. “Tell me who is doing this,” he roars, his claws digging into the expensive cloth of Peter’s shirt. 

Peter laughs, a wispy, strangled sound. “It’s not a who,” he says. “It’s a _what_. And I don’t know, exactly. Not yet. But I’m going to find out.” He closes his eyes, just briefly, and they flash blue when he opens them. “And if it’s what I think – what I _fear_ – well. You wouldn’t believe me even if I told you. But this is something I won’t help you with, Derek. This is something I can’t fight. I don’t have it in me. Not even for family.”

He presses a hand to Derek’s chest, and the shove takes him by surprise, sends him crashing into the wall, unseating a painting from its perch and earning himself an unpleasant bump when it falls on his head. He blinks up at Peter, who stands over him with his shirt ripped open, the fabric still caught up in Derek’s claws.

“And you can’t make me,” his uncle says, almost gently. “You’re not my alpha anymore.”

 

***

 

Derek doesn’t want to go home, so he calls Cora. The tinny sound of the default voicemail recording answers without pause for ringing, so he hangs up. She probably doesn’t get service out there. It’s fine. She’ll see that he called and know he’s alright, because he didn’t leave a message saying otherwise.

He stops for takeout at the Thai place a few blocks from his apartment, then idles in the parking lot outside of his building for a while, weighing the merits of sleeping in his car. Practicality wins out in the end, and he gets out of the car, not letting himself drag his feet on the way upstairs because he is not actually twelve years old, as much as he misses the days when throwing a tantrum actually made him feel better and not just more helpless, more lost.

The lock on his front door has been picked. He almost doesn’t notice – it’s been re-locked – but the keyhole is more scratched up than he remembers, the victim of an inexperienced if not outright clumsy hand, and the steps haven’t collected dust like he would have expected. Someone’s been here, and recently. Derek eases the door open, cautious, claws prickling eager at his fingertips.

If he hadn’t noticed the signs at the door, the break-in would have been obvious from the moment he stepped inside. All his furniture is still there – what little of it there is, and really, an actual thief would have been sorely disappointed at what they’d found here. No, this criminal had taken nothing, but rather left a great deal, and quite purposefully.

There are papers spread across the table his pack had used for planning, open books and maps and what appears to be a to-scale model of city hall, open on one side for internal perusal. The couch and any other visible surface are more of the same, stacks of books and file folders and crumpled balls of paper tumbling across the floor. Derek isn’t even sure how someone had gotten a whiteboard into his apartment, but there it is, covered in pasted-up papers, messy scrawl, and what might actually be equations, all interconnected with familiar red yarn. It’s all familiar, really. He’s seen this brand of madness, this sprawling, messy thought dump, painstakingly spread out and pieced back together to reach inevitably mind-boggling conclusions. Even if he didn’t recognize it, the scent is unmistakable. He’d smelled it scarcely a few hours earlier, after all -- but he’d still know it after weeks, maybe months.

Stiles has turned Derek’s loft into his own personal research headquarters.

He puts down his bags.

 

***

 

The cruiser isn’t in the driveway, but the only light on is downstairs, so Derek concludes that Stiles is there, cooking dinner or watching tv. He jumps up to the bedroom window anyway, because it’s familiar, and maybe Derek is a creature of habit, when he has the freedom to be something so easy.

He doesn’t turn on the light, but of course he doesn’t need to, and the sun hasn’t fully set, anyway. He doesn’t need a full range of color perception to take in the scene before him.

Stiles’s room had been something of a wreck when last he’d seen it, but now it’s a war zone. What had probably been a similar layout to the one he’d just witnessed back at his loft is layered over with papers stuck to the walls with thumbtacks, duct tape, at least one visible instance of chewing gum. Half of the papers are printouts, heavily notated in Stiles’s familiar scrawl, but a good number of them are handwritten in their entirety, with those that look the most recently pinned growing even less legible, the words growing in size and desperation and Derek begins to register the most frequent repetition–

 _Wake up_.

“What are you doing here?” says Stiles, and Derek hadn’t even heard him come in. “You can’t just barge in here anymore.” He sounds strange. Angry, but a little unsteady. Uncertain.

“I wasn’t supposed to before, either,” Derek points out.

Stiles makes a sound that might have been a laugh in another life. It doesn’t last. “Get out.”

“No,” Derek says. “Why did you call me?”

“Glaring lapse of judgment,” Stiles replies immediately, like he’s been waiting for it. “Won’t happen again.”

“Stiles,” says Derek, quiet and steady.

Stiles rubs at his face with both hands, shoulders slumping heavy under an invisible weight. “Just go, okay? I’m tired. I can’t do this with you right now.”

Derek looks at him for a long moment. Questions push at the seam of his lips, but he presses them thin and nods. “Another time,” he says, and leaves the way he came.

 

***

 

Back at his loft, Derek can’t find a place to sit. He doesn’t want to disturb any of Stiles’s papers on the couch, in case there’s some sort of order to it all that he just isn’t seeing. Giving the spot on the floor where he lost Boyd a wide, tense berth, he perches on the edge of his bed and methodically works his way through a bland carton of pork fried rice. He’s not hungry, but he doesn’t want to go to bed. He doesn’t want to lie back down in sheets that smell like death trying to steal Cora from him, and beneath that, persistent and cruel, the honeysuckle reminder of a pleasure that had been so far from worth what it had cost him. _Again_.

He can recall her scent perfectly even from a memory, so vividly that it takes him a moment to realize that he isn’t actually smelling it. Derek looks down, frowns at the soft flannel sheets and threadbare quilt covering his bed. Derek doesn’t _own_ flannel sheets, especially not ones printed with – he peers closer – tiny planets and stars and spaceships, and he hasn’t possessed anything long enough to give it time to get threadbare. The scent of Stiles, present in every corner of the loft, might be strongest here, pressed boldly into his pillows and soaked into these sheets.

There’s a Goldilocks joke in this somewhere, but no one’s here to make it.

Derek shucks his clothes unceremoniously, draping them over the footboard so they don’t wrinkle. He crawls into bed in naught but his briefs, slipping into Stiles’s scent like he’s putting on a new skin. He closes his eyes and waits for nightmares, but the warm smell of sleep and sweat and teenage boy encases him better than any blanket, muffles his senses like cotton in his ears and ships him to dreamland like a swaddled newborn. It’s not the only sleep he’s gotten in months, but it might be the best.

 

***

 

Derek sleeps until the sunlight pouring through the windows is bright enough to fight its way through the grime and properly assault his eyelids. He rolls out of bed and pads straight into the shower to discover that he forgot to pay the gas bill and there’s no hot water. It _had_ been a bit chilly last night, now that he thinks about it. He grits his teeth and forces his way through freezing ablutions, then towels himself off briskly and ambles naked back down the stairs. Breakfast is leftover takeout, unrefrigerated because he’d left it beside the bed, and because he didn’t care one way or the other – it had already tasted pretty terrible, and it wasn’t as if he could get food poisoning, anyway.

He isn’t sure what to do, then. The pack is probably at school – is it a weekday? Derek hasn’t looked at a calendar in… well, he’s _pretty_ sure it’s October, now. He hasn’t heard from Scott, though, so either they’re at school or they don’t need him. Derek has been left to his own devices. He sits down at the single chair by the table that has become Stiles’s research desk.

According to his notes, Nemeton is not the name of the tree in the Preserve, or of a kind of tree, even. Nemeta are the sacred spaces of the ancient druids, and can be groves or fields, any natural clearing that they chose to use as a shrine or meeting place.

There’s a quote, a page from Lucan’s _Pharsalia_ , that Stiles has blocked in with highlighter and annotated heavily.

“ _no bird nested in the nemeton, nor did any animal lurk nearby_ ,” said the passage, and Stiles had underlined _birds_ and written, “ _ **the birds that attacked our classroom – fleeing reawakened nemeton??**_ ” in bold, blocky script.

Lucan went on, “ _the leaves constantly shivered though no breeze stirred. Altars stood in its midst, and the images of the gods. Every tree was stained with sacrificial blood. the very earth groaned_ ,” (“ _ **HAPPENED!**_ ” Stiles writes urgently.) “ _dead yews revived; unconsumed trees were surrounded with flame, and huge serpents twined round the oaks. The people feared to approach the grove, and even the priest would not walk there at midday or midnight lest he should then meet its divine guardian.”_

In the margin at the bottom of the page, Stiles has doodled a wide-eyed face with a mouth agape in horror, little stick hands drawn up to its face in a clumsy parody of _The Scream_. “ _ **Is the guardian what we woke up?**_ ” he’s written beside it, the letters sharp like his hand was moving quickly, maybe even shaking. “ _ **Is it pissed?**_ ”

There’s a little more on the next page, record that the term is linked to a tribe who worshiped the war god _Cosus Nemedecus_. Stiles’s commentary there is in large letters, an exclamation of, “ _ **HOLY SHIT DID WE WAKE UP A CRANKY WAR GOD**_.” Derek takes a slow breath and hopes that he’s looking at more of Stiles’s wild speculation, rather than one of his alarmingly accurate insights.

Derek shoves the papers away from him abruptly – then moves to set them right again, hoping he hasn’t upset some kind of mysterious research savant organizational technique. He needs to call Scott. He isn’t going to be able to make any sense of this on his own.

 

***

 

Stiles shows up first, but trails to a stop when he sees Derek sitting on the only stool in front of his sprawling research table spread. “Oh. Right,” he says, blinking, as if he’s just remembered that this is actually _Derek’s apartment_ , not Stiles’s personal office/headquarters.

Derek just looks at him. “Where’s Scott,” he says, without inflection.

“He and Isaac stopped for lunch,” Stiles says, drawing himself up and strolling further into the apartment like he’s removed ‘awkward’ from his vocabulary. He casually moves to collect some papers off the couch, and if Derek wasn’t troublingly familiar with Stiles’s variant coloring, he’d probably write off the faint pink rising in the hollow of his cheeks as leftover exertion from tumbling up the stairs.

He doesn’t try to make conversation, and Stiles is uncharacteristically silent as he organizes his couch research. They make it maybe seven minutes before Stiles huffs, turning to Derek with his mouth open. “Y’know, I didn’t–”

The door bursts open with enough force that Stiles jumps, but it’s just Scott, beaming in the doorway with Isaac at his heels. “We got Mexican!”

A shuffle ensues as Scott passes out burritos, a responsible alpha thoughtlessly providing for his pack. Derek starts a little when he’s included in the distribution, taking the burrito gingerly. The moment is domestic, hospitable enough to make him fidget, wonder if he should even be here, invading their space, their pack.

“Shit,” says Scott, frowning into the bag. “I didn’t get salsa.”

“It’s cool, man,” Stiles says, already headed for the kitchen – _Derek’s_ kitchen. “I’ve got you covered.” Derek hears the refrigerator open, and Stiles reemerges with a half-empty jar of salsa.

Derek stares. Stiles tosses the jar to Scott, then catches Derek looking and freezes all over again. “Uh…”

Derek stands, stalking to the kitchen with slowly banking irritation. Yanking open the fridge, he finds it well-stocked with mountain dew, dr. pepper, and bulky jugs of hawaiian punch. Investigation of the cupboard turns up an assortment of potato chips, doritos, and cheese puffs. He turns back towards the rest of the room, trying to drill into Stiles with his glare, but the boy is studiously absorbed in one of his books, food apparently forgotten. Scott is looking between them, biting back a smile and laughing with his eyes. Isaac doesn’t appear to have an opinion on the matter, if his passionate devotion to his burrito is any indication.

Derek sighs. “Just tell me what– all this is,” he says, waving vaguely at the mess formerly known as his apartment.

Stiles looks up, mouth already open, but the other two hesitate.

“Allison should be here,” Scott says. “She’s a part of this, too.”

Stiles turns his head away, but Derek sees him roll his eyes. “It’s just a recap, dude,” he says, none of his irritation reaching his voice. “She knows what we know. We’re just repeating it to Derek.”

“She might remember something we don’t,” Scott persists.

Stiles gives him an incredulous look. “I hardly think we’re going to forget anything with our _wall of reminders_ right here.” He manages to gesture to the board with his entire body, arms splayed out in a presentation that would make QVC proud.

Scott’s mouth pulls down at the corners, but he nods. Everyone looks at Derek.

“We’ve been having dreams,” says Stiles.

Derek raises his eyebrows. “I assume you mean something outside of the norm,” he says.

“Yes, thank you, Colonel Specificity.” Stiles rolls his eyes again, shoving lightly at Derek’s shoulder. “Weird dreams.”

Scott shudders. “ _Bad_ dreams.”

“Probably safe to call them nightmares, at this point,” Isaac comments, though he doesn’t seem to be paying close attention.

“But they’re not all happening at night,” says Scott, looking at Stiles pointedly.

Derek frowns. “What are you talking about?”

Scott puts on his diplomacy face. “Well, in class, Stiles’s mind has a tendency to… wander…”

Stiles huffs. “I zone out, okay?” He looks down, brow furrowing. His voice slows. “And lately, sometimes, I, uh, zone into something else.” He pauses, amends, “Some _where_ else.”

“So you’re hallucinating,” Derek says, looking between them.

Stiles’s lips slant in a lopsided frown. “I’m not sure it’s as simple as that, but… yeah, let’s call it hallucinating, for now. Might as well.”

“Well, what are you hallucinating?”

Scott and Stiles exchange glances.

After a moment, Stiles begins. “It started out pretty vague. I mean, for me, there was no sound, not even, like… background noises, and everybody around me was talking in sign language – I don’t even know sign language, and there’s nowhere I could have subconsciously picked it up, so I don’t know if– I mean, it _couldn’t_ have been real sign language. But I didn’t understand it, obviously, so who even fucking knows. And sometimes there were all these doors..” He pauses to rub at his forehead. “They were open, but I couldn’t see through them, and it just felt like it was really important to close them, or else– or else _something_.” He shakes his head. “I mean, I just thought it was that heart of darkness stuff Deaton warned us about.”

Derek nods slowly. Scott had told him about of their sacrifice to the Nemeton, what they’d done to save their parents, and what it would mean for Beacon Hills. It’s why he’d kept his phone charged. Well, part of why.

“But then Scott started seeing bodies,” says Stiles, and Derek sits the fuck up and pays attention.

“I don’t recognize them,” says Scott. Derek is starting to understand why he looks so hollow, so haunted. “I don’t see their faces, they aren’t people I know, they aren’t in places or– or positions I’d recognize.” His nose wrinkles up, helplessly, and he mutters, “and they’re _rotting_.”

“Lydia barely sleeps,” Stiles says, looking grave. “Her mother’s trying to get her on some kind of sedative, but she won’t–” He looks down. “She says she doesn’t want to miss a warning. In case we need it.”

“We don’t know how it’s connected to the murders, exactly,” says Scott. “But it has to be.”

Stiles snorts, nods. “Everything always ends up being connected, around here.”

 

***

 

The door clangs open, and Derek has hardly registered Allison Argent, Lydia behind her, before the girl bursts out, “Gerard is dead.”

Derek feels like he’s misjudged the length of a staircase mid-jump. “Gerard wasn’t _already_ dead?” he says, gritting reflexively sharpening teeth.

Scott doesn’t even flinch. “We’ve been pumping him for information.” 

“Dude,” Stiles says, side-eying him with a grimace. “Word choice.” 

Deep breaths. Count to– “Since _when_?” Derek snaps out.

Scott shrugs. “A couple of months. He’s the one who told me Deucalion wasn’t always blind.” 

Derek opens his mouth to demand an explanation, but Stiles is a step ahead of him. “Come on, man, don’t act like you wouldn’t have gone after him. _I_ wanted to go after him, when I found out. We all did.” 

Scott turns to Allison. “Are you alright? What happened?” 

Allison nods and sits down next to Isaac, Lydia propping one hip on the couch arm beside her. “My dad found the body earlier today,” she says, voice tight and controlled. “I just heard about it when he came home from giving a statement at the police station.” 

Gerard had been discovered in his room at the hospice, beaten savagely, bones broken, face caved in. “But the marks,” Allison says, fingers curling in her lap. “They looked like they were made by _fists_.”

No one speaks for a long moment. Then Stiles’s hand comes down hard on the table, scattering loose papers. “It doesn’t make _sense_. People are dying at the rate of a serial killer, but there’s no pattern, no connections, no _modus operandi_. How are we supposed to find this guy if we can’t even figure out what he’s trying to do?”

“How do you know it’s a guy?” says Allison, carefully.

“I don’t.” Stiles tries to run a hand through his hair, only makes it halfway through before it tightens into a fist, pulls. “I just watch a lot of _Criminal Minds_. Serial killers are _usually_ crazy-ass white dudes. Look out our own track record, even. Peter, Matt, Gerard, Deucalion – Jackson, technically. Sorry, Lydia.”

“Technically,” Lydia says, crisp, “wasn’t Ms. Blake the only _actual_ serial killer?”

Derek can feel the others’ eyes on him, but doesn’t look away from Stiles. He doesn’t want to see Scott’s soft empathy, Allison’s grim pity, Lydia’s unapologetic frown.

“She’s not off my list, either,” Stiles says darkly. “Not until I see a body.”

“Who’s on this list, now, anyway?” Scott puts down his burrito, having only managed a few bites before the conversation got too serious for eating.

“Well,” says Stiles, mouth slanting in a thoughtful frown, “It needs revising, now that we’ve got another body – scratch that, _two_ more bodies – on our hands.” He steps up to the whiteboard, turning it over to reveal a complex web of names and events, written and connected in various colors. Derek sees _Ms. Blake_ , _Peter_ , _Deucalion_ , and _Gerard_ written in the largest of Stiles’s messy scrawl, red as blood and forming a square generally centered on the board. _Alpha Twins_ and _Morrell_ branch off from Deucalion’s circle, and Peter and Gerard have sprouted _various other werewolves_ and _various other hunters_ respectively.

“These are the bad guys we already know. Two of them have been murdered in the past forty-eight hours.” Stiles grabs a black marker, drawing a big x over Deucalion’s name. He hesitates over Gerard, glancing back at Allison. “Did you _see_ the body?”

“My dad did,” Allison says, lips thinning. “I don’t think–” she stops, shakes her head. “He wouldn’t lie about this.”

Stiles draws a single slash through the name, not looking away from the board when he says, “Try to put your own eyes on him, anyway.” Derek doesn’t have to look to know Allison’s quietly bristling, but he sees her nod from the corner of his eye.

“So that’s two suspects down,” Stiles says, frowning at the board like it’s beating him at Mario Kart. “And now we know that the killer is someone who knows not just that Gerard and Deucalion are alive, but _where_ Gerard was alive – being kept, whatever.” He steps back from the board, tapping the blunt end of the marker against his plush lips. 

“The people we know who knew – who we know knew? Fuck – anyway, it’s a pretty damn short list. Allison’s dad, Gerard’s doctor – whom I _assume_ you guys vetted – and… us, except for Derek. Did Deaton know? Ugh, probably, that guy knows way too much to be as unhelpful as he is.” Stiles is pacing now, back and forth in front of the whiteboard in short, confident strides. “Even if Ms. Blake somehow _did_ know Gerard was alive, why would she want to kill him? He’s not a werewolf, and he’s about as far from being an alpha pack ally as it’s possible to get.”

“But he was involved in the events that led to the creation of the alpha pack,” Allison says, and Derek’s head jerks around to look at her.

“Good point.” Stiles is nodding. “So we’re saying she could blame Gerard for blinding Deucalion and making him insane.” He bites his lip, eyeing his whiteboard, then draws an arrow from Ms. Blake to Gerard, labelling it ‘ _blames for alphas??_ ’ “It’s kind of a stretch, but we can’t rule it out. It’s not like her whole… mission… made a whole lot of sense, anyway.”

“Maybe they were working together,” Isaac suggests, head lolling back on the couch as he looks at the ceiling, the picture of contemplation. “To get rid of the alpha pack.”

Scott sits up a little straighter. “But then, once they got rid of Deucalion, Ms. Blake decided she didn’t need Gerard any more.”

“Or she just realized he was too dangerous to keep around,” Allison says darkly.

“No arguments here,” Stiles says, scrawling ‘ _alliance gone sour_ ’ under his previous label.

“What about Peter?” Lydia says primly, not looking up from her nails. “If he killed Deucalion, he’s an alpha now, and I believe we’re all aware of how well that went _last_ time.”

“He’s not an alpha,” Derek hears himself say.

Stiles rounds on him, blinking like he’d forgotten Derek was there. “What?”

Derek sighs. “He’s not an alpha. I saw him yesterday.”

Scott sits up, wide-eyed. “You found him?”

Stiles’s eyes, in contrast, narrow with suspicion. “How?”

Derek has to resist the urge to round out the trio with an eyeroll. “I went to his apartment, Stiles. How do you _think_ I found him?”

Stiles makes a face at him, scrunched-up and annoyed, but Derek doesn’t sense an uptick in the frustrated thump of his heartbeat. “Okay, fine. So Peter didn’t kill Deucalion. Personally, at least. Or just not with his own hands.” He pauses, looking back at Derek with a new frown. “If you shoot an alpha, do you still inherit his power?”

Derek blinks. He isn’t actually sure. Luckily, Stiles doesn’t wait for an answer, barging onwards with, “Beating someone to death without claws doesn’t really seem like his style, anyway.”

“It’s not any of their styles,” Isaac says, through a mouthful of burrito. The heavy talk doesn’t seem to have affected his appetite in the slightest. “That’s kind of the point, isn’t it? The whole lack-of-pattern thing?”

“Yeah.” Stiles’s shoulders slump, and he rubs at his face, his next words coming out muffled. “Shit. I can’t… there are too many possibilities. We need more _facts_. How can we know that Peter and Ms. Blake aren’t working together now?”

“She told our parents she wanted to get rid of werewolves,” Allison points out.

“But she was going to use Derek to take out Deucalion,” Stiles says. Derek sees him start to glance Derek’s way, then catch himself. “Maybe Peter saw an opportunity, offered himself up instead. Maybe he’s the one who took her body from the distillery, even. Who knows?”

“We didn’t smell anyone else at the distillery,” Scott says, slowly. He doesn’t shy away from looking at Derek, who shakes his head in agreement.

“Were you _looking_ for a smell?” Stiles says pointedly. His brow furrows. “I mean… you know what I mean.”

Scott’s frown slants thoughtfully. Derek grunts. “Fine. It’s possible.”

“Wait.” Stiles stops abruptly, blanching as his eyes finally land on Derek. “You just went to his apartment by yourself. Don’t _do_ that, Derek!”

“What,” Derek says, reflexively dropping back into a scowl. “You wanted to come along?”

Stiles scowls back, looking away. “Well, I assume you’d want someone like Scott at your back, not _me_ ,” he says, deceptively jocular. “But I’m getting better with the mountain ash.”

“Shut up, Stiles.” Those words come way too easily for how long Derek’s been gone. “I can handle Peter.”

“I know you _think_ so,” Stiles says, in a tone he must think is placating, “but he’s been lying way too low, lately. I don’t like it. He’s definitely up to something.”

His brow furrows, and he leans his hands on the desk, giving Derek a striking display of his profile. Derek tears his gaze away, lets it drift to the whiteboard. “What about the twins? They’re on your board, too.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, heavier than Derek expects, “but they’re probably going to end up in the body pile. They’ve been more scarce than Peter, and better at it, too. Either they’ve left town, or they’re dead.”

“Danny’s heartbroken,” says Lydia, matter-of-fact. She says nothing about the state of her own heart.

Isaac snorts. “He shouldn’t be. He’s better off without him.”

Scott elbows him, aiming for discreet and veering wildly off course. “Isaac, man,” he mutters, “come on.” Isaac huffs, but says nothing. Scott clears his throat. “So, who does that leave?”

“With motive to kill both Gerard and Deucalion?” Stiles rubs at his forehead with the side of his hand, blows out a slow breath. “Well… us.”

“Us,” Scott repeats, like he may have misheard. “You mean the pack?”

“If you have any better ideas, I’d be _thrilled_ to hear them,” Stiles snaps, and Scott’s eyes harden.

“Most of us don’t have the means, though,” Lydia points out, eminently unbothered by the sparks of dispute igniting before her.

“I know.” Stiles says, scrubbing a hand over his hair. It’s a habit left over from his buzz-cut days, and leaves his hair sticking out at all angles.

“Someone physically tore Deucalion’s head from his body,” Lydia continues, tapping her lower lip. “Obviously, that’s not human strength. It might not even be werewolf strength.”

“An alpha could probably do it,” Derek volunteers, because he doubts Scott has measured the limits of his own strength, yet. It was one of the first things Derek had done, when he’d had a moment to himself after killing Peter, but he’d had very different priorities than Scott, as an alpha. In general, really. “But only if Deucalion wasn’t fighting back.” He doesn’t have to vocalize how unlikely that would be – it’s more than evident in everyone’s dubious expressions.

“Or the Darach,” says Stiles, grimly. He pauses. “A darach? There had better only be one darach, okay. I am not dealing with that again.”

“I don’t know,” Isaac says, in that drawl that means Derek’s about to roll his eyes, “I kind of miss the simple days, when we actually had a vague idea of who was trying to kill us.”

“That’s the other thing!” Stiles says, spinning on his heel. “They’re _not_ trying to kill us.”

“They’re trying to kill our enemies,” says Allison, with a frown. “Maybe we should let them.”

“They haven’t tried to kill us _yet_ ,” Scott says, leaning forward. “Maybe they’re circling. Someone left a _head_ in my _yard_ , dude. What if my mom had seen that?”

“She would have been completely fine, because Melissa McCall is a strong, independent woman who doesn’t take any shit.” Stiles taps the end of his marker in the palm of his free hand, glancing back over his shoulder. “Your _dad_ seeing it is what I’d be worried about.”

Scott goes pale. “Shit, I didn’t even think of that.” He turns, wide-eyed. “Allison, do you know if the FBI is including Gerard’s murder in their serial killer investigation?”

Allison looks grim. “Dad said there was a profiler at the scene, asking questions…” She swallows, lips thinning with restraint. “I don’t _think_ he’s a suspect, but– _that_ is something he might not tell me the truth about.”

 

***

 

Everyone leaves in pairs. Lydia and Allison go, then Isaac and Scott start gathering their things. Stiles is still glowering at his whiteboard of accusation, and Scott notices, stops by the door. “You coming, man?” he says, leaning on the frame. “We can follow you back to your place, if you want.” He waggles his eyebrows. “Special werewolf escort.”

Stiles huffs out a laugh. “Nah, don’t worry about it, dude,” he says, shaking his head. “I’ve got some stuff I want to finish up, here.” 

Scott frowns, and Stiles raises his eyebrows, gaze sharpening. They go back and forth with slight shifts in facial expression, a silent conversation between life-long best friends. 

Then Scott sighs and nods. “Don’t forget the history test tomorrow,” he cautions, then disappears out the door.

Derek watches the exchange in outright disbelief. Hadn’t the pack _just_ finished discussing the importance of no one traveling alone until they figured out what sort of monster was out there, brutally killing people? As he stares, brow knitted with confusion, Stiles drifts away from the whiteboard, aimlessly gathering trash left over from lunch and the pizza they ordered when the sun had started to set. He seems lost in his thoughts, completely oblivious to the holes Derek is trying to stare into him.

Finally, Derek can’t stand it any more. “Why are you still here?”

Stiles’s head jerks up. “Shit,” he says weakly. “Forgot you were here.”

“This is my apartment,” says Derek.

“No, yeah, I’m aware,” says Stiles, starting to rub the back of his head, then catching himself just short of getting a faceful of half-eaten pizza. “Uh. I just… wanted to go over my research again. Do you mind?”

Derek can’t tell if the trip of his heart is carry-over from being surprised, or if Stiles is actually trying to lie to him. He looks at him for a long moment, but it doesn’t get any clearer, so he just nods. Stiles breathes out slowly, visibly relieved, and moves to finish collecting the trash with renewed vigor. Derek is surprised to find that his apartment even has garbage bags, now.

Once the trash is tied off and waiting by the door to be taken out, Stiles settles back at the table with his papers while Derek pretends to be reading a book about druids and pretends not to watch Stiles. He’s clearly restless, fidgeting and sighing intermittently as he shuffles his notes, holds a pen poised over the papers but never quite sets it down to write.

It’s maddening. With a loud sigh, Derek stands, grabbing the arm of the couch with his free hand and dragging it over to join Stiles at the table.

“Tell me what you’re looking at,” he says, because ordering is easier than offering.

And Stiles does.

He’s been going into trances. Scott can’t transform for hours after he wakes up. Allison stabbed her dad in the shoulder when he tried to wake her from a screaming nightmare. And they’re all dreaming about death. Murder, specifically. 

“It’s never clear enough to tell who or what’s being killed, but we’re looking through the eyes of the killer, all three of us. Sometimes the dreams match up, sometimes they’re different parts of the–” Stiles cuts himself off, gaze boring grim holes into the tabletop. “Deaton told us we were opening up a door when we revived the nemeton, a door for the supernatural to return to beacon hills, but doors aren’t one-way. Maybe we drew something here, and because we were the ones who made the sacrifice, we’re… connected to it, somehow.”

Stiles grits his teeth hard enough that Derek can hear his jaw creak. “If it’s going to make us watch, it could at least give us some kind of clue what it is.” He flips open another notebook.

“Involuntary possession means the spirit has to be placated somehow – that is, if you can’t exorcise it, which obviously we can’t if we don’t know what’s being possessed. It’s usually something symbolic, some sort of gift or luxury, like a feast for a spirit who starved to death when they were alive.” Stiles flips the pages of the book in front of him, aimless, frustrated. “But all the recordings I can find of that kind of shit weren’t nearly this… sentient, this _methodical_. If it wants something, it’s something very specific, and it’s probably something we’re not going to want to give it.”

“Do you really think that’s what’s happening?” Derek isn’t sure he agrees. This is the work of a monster, not some random innocent on an accidental killing spree. That kind of damage can’t be done by human hands, not even adrenaline-fueled and unrestrained human hands.

“I don’t know what to think, Derek,” Stiles says, on a tired sigh. He stares unseeing at the words in front of him. “Something’s in our heads, and it’s killing people. It’s… kind of a lot to take in.”

“How much of this have you told Scott and Allison?” If there’s anything they should have learned by now, it’s that communication is absolutely fucking necessary.

Stiles flinches very slightly, which is really answer enough. “I don’t want to scare them, if I’m wrong,” he says, putting his head in his hands. “I know they’re already scared. I’m… fuck. I’m _scared_.” He lifts his head, and his eyes are hollow in his gaunt face when he looks at Derek, breathes, “I don’t think I’ve ever been so fucking scared.”

Derek doesn’t know what to do with his body. There’s a strange urge to reach out, to comfort Stiles, somehow, but Derek doesn’t do that. He doesn’t know _how_ to do that; it’s been too long since he had anyone who needed comfort from him.

“If you’ve been having so much trouble sleeping – don’t lie, it’s obvious,” Derek says, quelling Stiles’s protest with a sharp look, “then what have you been doing in my bed?” 

Stiles’s eyes widen, and a dark flush rises in the hollows of his cheeks. “How did you–”

“I’m a werewolf, Stiles,” Derek says, impatient. “I’m going to notice if someone else’s scent is smeared all over my pillows.” He glances over at the bed and rolls his eyes. “Also, you changed the bed sheets.” The, “ _moron_ ,” is implied, tacked on there at the end.

Stiles groans into his hands, shaking his head. “I just… sleep a little better here. At all, here, really.” Before Derek can try to process that, let alone react, he quickly adds, “Probably because it’s farther away from, you know. The Nemeton.” He ducks his head a little, then murmurs, “Maybe just because it’s quieter.”

It _is_ quiet, here. That’s part of why Derek had chosen it in the first place. The area’s mostly abandoned, like the majority of beacon hills’ old factory district. There’s not a lot of traffic. Not a lot of witnesses, if anything goes wrong. When anything went wrong.

It’s especially quiet now, the silence heavy in the air between them as Derek watches Stiles fight back a yawn. He loses, rather impressively.

“You can sleep here,” Derek says finally, injecting more irritation that he feels into his voice, so that Stiles understands what an imposition he is, just in general. As a person.

Stiles tries to light up, Derek can see him attempting to summon up his usual ebullience, his _gotcha_ -grin, but it doesn’t make it to his eyes, and even his smile seems to droop at the corners.

Like he’s just been waiting for the go-ahead, Stiles rises without a second glance at his research, shuffling over to Derek’s bed and flopping on top of the blankets with even his shoes still on, feet hanging off of the end of the bed. He looks like he’d just pass out right there, like Derek’s bed is the only sedative he needs, but he’s not even on one _side_ , for Christ’s sake, and Derek’s not sleeping on the couch. He’s cleaned way too much blood off that leather to feel safe sleeping there.

He follows Stiles’s path with longer strides, yanking on one of those adidas sneakers and hearing Stiles groan and mumble protest but obligingly wiggle his way out of his shoes and under the blanket without ever opening his eyes. Derek rolls his, stripping down to his undershirt, an old white tank top, and then changing into flannel pajama bottoms because it’s winter, damn it, and just because werewolves run hotter than humans doesn’t mean Derek doesn’t get chilly on a cold night – especially since, if he knows Stiles at all, he’s a card-carrying cover thief.

Derek climbs under the blankets and, after a moment’s hesitation, pulls them up higher on Stiles’s shoulders. Already highly unconscious, Stiles nonetheless makes a warm, pleased sound and squirms closer, curling towards Derek. They aren’t touching, but they’re close enough that Derek can feel the heat radiating from Stiles’s weird little body and it’s… oddly soothing. Derek tries not to think about how nice it feels to sleep next to someone, how much safer it feels here than he ever did sharing a bed with someone else.

When he wakes up in the morning, Stiles is gone. In his place is the oppressive, familiar scent of _absence_.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I warned you guys about the blood, right? Remember that.

He should have known better than to call Scott. The line goes to voicemail after the second ring – so he’s rejecting calls outright, now, instead of just ignoring them. They do say becoming an alpha changes a person. Because it’s an emergency, Derek leaves a tersely worded voicemail along the lines of _Stiles is missing, pick up your phone, you goddamn idiot_. Something like that. Roughly.

Five minutes later, his phone beeps with a new text message alert from Scott.

_im in class what_

Derek exhales sharply through his nose, thumbs mashing impatiently at the buttons.

 _STLES MSNG_ , he types.

There’s no response for eight and a half more minutes. Derek is halfway to the police station when his phone beeps again.

_what??? hes right here dude_

Derek stops the car in the middle of the road, ignoring the screeching brakes and angry honking that starts up behind him as a result.

Stiles is at school. Obviously. Because that is where teenage children go during the day. Derek is an idiot.

His phone beeps again.

_where did u think he was???_

The relief that sweeps through him is quickly followed by awkward, prickling embarrassment. He is not about to explain to Scott the cold fear that wrapped his heart in its fist and shoved itself into his throat when he realized Stiles was not in his bed where Derek had left him, when he thought he detected the strange non-scent that had shown up on Deucalion’s head.

No, he _had_ sensed it. That was what had given him reason to panic, not just Stiles’s absence. Had the thing that was killing people been in his loft at some point during the night? Or was it some side effect of the dreams the creature was giving to Scott, Stiles, and Allison? _Something_ was going on. He’ll tell Stiles about it, later.

 _NVRMND_ , he types, and shifts the car back into gear.

 

***

 

Scott is the only one who appears at Derek’s loft after cross country practice that evening. He’s not the one Derek wanted to talk to, but Derek is secretly relieved that he’s the one who shows up. With the looks Scott’s giving him, Derek doesn’t want to think about how Stiles would react to seeing Derek after his little episode, this morning.

Then Scott says, “There are new hunters in town,” and any residual embarrassment is promptly put from Derek’s mind.

Apparently, Allison’s dad had told her this morning that a group of hunters from further north had rolled into town last night, following rumors of “an unusual string of murders.” When they heard that the former head of the Argent family had been killed that same day, they promptly set up camp, and have been patrolling the Beacon Hills Preserve since approximately lunchtime. Derek doesn’t understand why everyone and their brother feels entitled to go exploring on _private property_ , but it’s not exactly unusual behavior, coming from hunters.

“Do you know if it’s one of the old families?” Derek asks, wary. If he knew who was looking, he’d know how to advise Scott on precisely _how_ low he needed to lie.

Scott shakes his head. “Mr. Argent and Allison are going to meet them tonight at midnight.” 

Derek rolls his eyes. _Hunters._

He opens his mouth to caution him, but Scott speaks before he can. “I want to go check out the camp before they get there. See what we’re up against, without getting a filtered version from… y’know, secondhand.”

Derek blinks. “That’s a good idea.”

“You don’t have to sound so shocked,” Scott says, glancing at him sidelong – but he’s smiling.

“You should take someone with you,” Derek says, meeting his eyes squarely. “Stealth will be more difficult, but you don’t want to go into a hunter’s camp without somebody watching your back.”

Scott grins, wide and toothy. “Why do you think I came here first?”

 

***

 

“Why did you ask me to do this, and not Isaac?” Derek asks, once they’re in his car.

“Isaac has to work after practice,” Scott says, and Derek blows through a stop sign in his shock. He glances back over his shoulder, cringing internally. Derek’s always prided himself on being a safe driver, since he can’t be a safe anything else.

“He’s working?” he says, carefully calm. “Where?”

“Well, training for work,” Scott clarifies. “His foster dad is teaching him how to drive a limo, so he can help out during winter formal season.” He shrugs. “Apparently there are a lot of fancy parties.”

“This is the first I’ve heard of it,” Derek can’t help but say.

“Yeah, apparently they made a deal a while ago.” Scott just shrugs again, supremely unconcerned. “He shows up for work, and they don’t ask questions about where he is the rest of the time.” He slants a curious look Derek’s way. “Didn’t you ever ask him why no one seemed to mind him basically moving in with you? It’s not exactly legal, you know.”

Derek frowns, watching the road. “Tell me when to pull over,” he says.

 

***

 

It’s well after the sun has fully set that they reach the forest proper – dark enough that their night vision will give them an advantage. Scott has been clear that he just wants to look around, not get too close, and Derek sees no reason to argue.

“Wait,” Derek says, when his gaze snags on a tiny flicker of light. He reaches to grab Scott’s arm, but catches himself.

Scott has already turned back. “What?”

Derek crouches where he stands, examining the thin metal trip-wire wound around the base of two trees, just above ankle height. “It’s electrified,” he says, when Scott joins the inspection. “Not enough to do much damage, even to a human, but – flashy.” He frowns. “Some hunters circle their camps with it, to help them spot intruders.” To show that visitors aren’t welcome.

Scott nods and straightens, then gives Derek a measuring look. “Thanks,” he says, very deliberately. “I didn’t know about those.”

Derek shrugs, stepping over the wire carefully. “Now you do.”

They keep moving, more cautiously than before. The camp can’t be far, now.

Scott stops first, eyes flashing red. Derek follows suit, looking for what alarmed him, but finds nothing – until he smells the blood.

When they reach the site, it’s just carnage.

Bodies are scattered around the still-crackling campfire in pieces, blood blanketing the ground like a coat of fresh paint. The hunters’ tents are shredded, their weapons twisted, broken, some even melted. 

“I’d better call Allison,” Scott says, and Derek can hear the way his voice wants to shake. The way it doesn’t.

Scott turns away, pulling out his phone, and Derek does the same, but opens a new text message, instead.

 _Stay inside_ , he types, painstakingly, under Stiles’s name. _Keep lights off._

Stiles doesn’t text back.

 

***

 

Chris Argent and Allison emerge from the SUV with their weapons drawn. Argent is the only one pointing his at Scott and Derek, at least, and he lowers it when his daughter elbows him.

Allison’s face is shuttered as she strides in front of her father, stepping over a severed leg to get to Scott. “Are you alright?” she says, gripping her crossbow in both hands like she’d rather be checking him for injuries. 

Behind her, Argent crouches by a body, examining its gun with gloved hands. “It’s been fired,” he says, and everyone turns. “Maybe once. Wolfsbane bullet.” 

Allison looks back at Scott. “Would you be able to find the bullet by scent? If it’s still here?”

They split up to scan the area, Derek and Scott taking the outer perimeters while Allison and her father examine the campsite. Argent braves the RV, but emerges only moments later, looking pale. 

Derek can’t find anything but the occasional long-ranging blood spatter, and is starting to venture farther when Scott calls out, “Guys? I think I found the bullet.”

Derek trots back over. The Argents have beaten him there. Allison’s got her hand over her mouth, and her father’s brow is furrowed. Derek looks at Scott’s outstretched hand, and there’s the bullet – or what used to be the bullet, now almost entirely flattened, squished as if against a curving surface.

“Bulletproof vest?” Scott says, more hope than suggestion.

Chris shakes his head. “It’d still be stuck in there.” He takes the bullet from Scott’s hand, looking grim. “This hit something completely impenetrable.”

 

***

 

The Argents head home to phone in an anonymous tip about the scene in the woods. Scott and Derek head for Stiles, who still hasn’t texted Derek back, or answered when Scott called. 

Derek follows Scott through the window just as Stiles emerges from the bathroom in naught but a ratty old towel and a thousand uncatalogued moles. He notices them almost immediately, yelping and darting back into the bathroom. “This is an invasion of privacy!” he shouts, struggling to shut the steam-swollen door. “I know my rights!”

Scott rolls his eyes and crosses to Stiles’s dresser, not needing a search to fetch his friend some pajamas. Derek leans on the windowsill, regretting all choices that led him to this moment. “Who showers at two in the morning?” he wonders aloud.

Stiles’s voice is a little distorted through the wood. “What else am I going to do, sleep?”

“I don’t know,” says Derek, “whatever else you do in the middle of the night, these days.” 

“I already did that,” says Stiles. “Twice. Thus the shower.”

It takes Derek a moment to catch on. He isn’t sure what his face does in response, but it cuts off Scott’s childish snickering in favor of a deeply suspicious look that Derek abruptly realizes is _deserved_ , because he’s thinking about Stiles, now, all lean and sweaty and flushed, and– fuck. _Fuck._

Scott doesn’t really need a ride home, anyway. 

 

***

 

On the way to the loft, Derek has to take the road that passes nearest the dead hunters’ campsite, and of course there’s a police blockade. Derek thumps his head on the steering wheel and fumbles blindly for the Toyota’s spacious glove compartment.

“Just a routine stop,” says the officer at his window, not very convincingly. “License and registration, please.” As Derek hands them over, he meets the narrowed eyes of a tall man in the uniform suit of a federal agent. Derek doesn’t begrudge him a healthy dose of suspicion. He knows he doesn’t look like someone who would drive this Toyota, despite its surfeit of leg-room and great gas mileage. Derek looks like he drives a Camaro, or a motorcycle, or perhaps an unmarked, windowless van.

The agent takes Derek’s paperwork from the officer and waves her on to the next car while he peers at Derek, at his license – and then goes very still. Derek hears his heart rate jump.

“Derek Hale?” he says, looking from the license to the man. Derek nods, meeting his gaze steadily.

The agent’s lips thin, and he looks wary. Derek had been under the impression that government agents were unperturbable. The man leans in closer and lowers his voice to say, “You tell your little friend that I’m holding up my end of the deal. The files are gone. Tell him…” He swallows, like it’s killing him to debase himself like this, but he grinds out, “Tell him he doesn’t have to worry about the FBI.” Then he narrows his eyes, like he wants to add “ _for now_ ” but isn’t quite brave or stupid enough.

Derek stares at him for a long moment, baffled. Luckily, his poker face is essentially carved from granite, so he’s able to just nod, rather than betray his confusion. The agent nods back, then steps away, and Derek is waved through the blockade with no further delay.

Derek keeps driving, mind blank, until he hits the next red light. He stares at it, and replays the encounter in his head, turning the agent’s words over and over. 

His apartment is straight ahead, but Derek turns right, towards downtown. It’s time he got some real answers.

 

***

 

Peter is awake, which is not surprising, and also home, which is much more so. When they were younger, before the fire, Peter was rarely home in the evening. Derek hadn’t paid attention to whether his uncle had fallen on old habits in his second chance at life, but if Peter still spends most of his nights out on the town, then this, at least, is not one of those nights. He opens the door with a grim smile.

“Derek,” he says. “I can’t imagine you’re here with good news.”

“Tell me what’s killing people,” Derek grinds out.

“Lovely to see you too, darling nephew,” Peter says breezily.

Derek glares as Peter moves aside, beckoning him through the doorway. He doesn’t have _time_ for this.

“Maybe it’s my age talking,” Peter says as he retreats into the living room. “But I could have sworn we’d had this conversation before. And yet, it doesn’t seem you’ve taken my advice, what with you standing here in my apartment, rather than scampering back to your sweet sister with your tail tucked between your legs.”

Derek growls, low and barely audible, but the sound curls close around them, thick with tension. Peter smiles.

Derek stops. He swallows his anger and tries to think clearly. “Tell me what you know,” he says, level, straightforward. “Tell me what kind of creature can repel a bullet with its own skin, or some sort of shield– what kind of creature can eviscerate a whole team of hunters before the sun’s even gone down.”

Peter blinks at him, then throws his head back and _laughs_ , wide and open and completely infuriating. Derek feels his growl starting up again – he was trying to be civil, trying to _compromise_ – but Peter waves his anger away, gasping, “No, no, I’m sorry, it’s only, if you _knew_ –” He shakes his head and wipes at his eyes, mostly for effect. “In a way, it’s sweet,” he says, smirking.

Derek just scowls at him, waiting. Peter delivers once he’s gotten sufficient enjoyment out of Derek’s impatience. “But why aren’t you pleased? It’s just removing threats to the pack.” He straightens, ticking them off on his fingers. “The alpha twins, Deucalion, Gerard, and now a team of werewolf hunters hungry for someone to pin it all on.” He grins, far too cheerful. “Sounds to me like the True Alpha’s found himself a guardian angel.”

Derek takes a breath, deep and slow. “Peter. I’m _asking_ for your help.”

Peter’s mouth stretches in a beatific smile that Derek expects to see featuring heavily in his nightmares in the near future. “How much did it cost you, to say those words?” He tilts his head, face turning appraising. “But, you know, I don’t think you actually need my help.” His eyes sharpen. “I think you _know_ what’s doing this, _who_ is doing this – but you want me to tell you you’re wrong.”

Derek doesn’t know. He _can’t_ know. He grits his teeth, says, “Can you?” 

Peter heaves an enormous, resigned sigh, then spreads his hands and says, “How I wish–”

Then he stops, lifts his head, and then looks at Derek, all traces of mockery gone from his features. “Go to the bathroom,” he says, quiet. “Now.”

Derek is left tense but wrong-footed. “What–”

Peter grabs his arm, yanking him forward. “For god’s sake, Derek, listen to me for once in your life,” he hisses, eyes wild.

Derek saves the eyeroll _that_ deserves for when he’s securely barricaded in the bathroom with the lights off, his ear pressed to the door.

He can hear Peter, seated on the couch, casually flipping through a book. For all his uncle’s heart was racing earlier, it’s quieted now. Even and calm.

The front door creaks open without a knock. Derek tenses, then forces himself to relax, softening his breath and trying to match his heartbeat to Peter’s, the way his mother had taught them to as children.

“I thought you might be stopping by,” Peter says, light and casual. “Though I expected you earlier. I heard the sirens some time ago. Were you held up?”

“Something like that,” says Stiles, and Derek– 

Derek can’t breathe.

“So what’s next on the agenda?” Derek hears Peter put down his book, hears the couch squeak as he stands. “World domination? Prom king?”

“I know Derek came to see you,” Stiles says, as casually as Peter had spoken, but with a dark undercurrent even Derek’s uncle couldn’t pull off. Peter’s heartbeat trips, then steadies when Stiles continues, “The day before last.” There’s a strange pulse in the air, and again Derek’s senses feel dulled, like the environment has been scoured scentless, but far stronger than the residual effects he’d been experiencing before. The inside of his nose prickles, and his ears ring.

“I told him to leave,” Peter is saying, smoothly.

“ _Leave_?” Stiles’s voice cracks, and it sounds so _like him_ that Derek’s heart constricts painfully. “Derek can’t leave!”

“Why not?” Peter sounds genuinely confused. “If he sticks around, it’ll only be a matter of time before he finds out–”

“I don’t care,” says Stiles. “I don’t need time.” He pauses, for what Derek realizes with a sick lurch is _dramatic effect_ , and says, “ _Derek_ is what’s next on my agenda.”

Peter laughs, a shorter version of the one he offered Derek. A little more tense. “You’re going to kill Derek?” he says, incredulously. “ _That’s_ what Stiles wants?”

“Don’t be an idiot,” snaps what Derek is quickly realizing is Definitely Not Stiles. “Stiles wants to _fuck_ Derek.”

“I didn’t know you dealt in pleasure as well as pain,” Peter says, never breaking his stride.

“It’s none of your concern what I _deal in_ ,” says Not-Stiles. “What did you tell him?”

“I told him I didn’t know what was killing people,” says Peter, and it’s not even a lie. He’s always been good at this.

“And?” says Not-Stiles.

Peter sighs, like this conversation is a massive imposition on him. Even for Peter, it’s pretty ballsy. “I told him that whatever it was, it’s stronger than us, than all of us, and that it’s not worth fighting, so he should run home to his sister while he still can.”

Derek can hear Not-Stiles sneer. “A coward’s answer. I’m not surprised.”

“How do you intend to seduce him without showing him what you are?” Peter’s tone is casual, if a bit creepily inquisitive, but Derek knows he’s asking on his behalf.

“Oh, the little bitch is already gagging for it,” Not-Stiles says blithely, and Derek feels a sickening swoop of shame low in his gut. “I’ve just got to put Stiles in the right place at the right time. A _compromising position_ , you might say. Something he can’t resist.” He pauses, laughs. “Or I could just wait. He’ll come after it himself, eventually. They always do.”

There’s the sound of soft footsteps, but then Not-Stiles stops, maybe turns back. “You should disappear for a while,” he drawls lazily, like he’s commenting on the weather. “Don’t leave town, but don’t be seen. Don’t let him find you. If I hear otherwise…” Not-Stiles laughs, but like before, it’s not Stiles’s laugh, not at all. It’s cold and boiling all at once, hollow, and entirely inhuman. “I’ll make sure there’s nothing left to find.”

More footsteps, and the door clicks shut again. Neither Peter nor Derek moves for several long minutes, wanting to be sure it’s well out of earshot.

Then Peter yanks the door open. “Well, that was even more informative than I expected,” he says briskly, beckoning Derek out of the bathroom with a flourishing gesture. “Do you feel enlightened? Any burning questions for me, before I disappear from the grid?”

Derek sways past him on wobbly legs, dropping onto the edge of the couch. 

_Stiles_.

“There, now,” Peter says, patting his shoulder. “It feels like shock, but you’ve known. You’re not an idiot, Derek, no matter what we’ve always told you.”

 

***

 

At daybreak, Derek is at the McCall house, watching Scott’s mom leave for an early shift at the hospital before he climbs out of his car and heads for the door. He knocks, because this isn’t Stiles’s house, and Scott answers the door almost immediately. He’s sleep-rumpled but bright-eyed, like he’s been awake for a little while already.

“I heard your car pull up an hour ago,” he says, already serious. “What happened?”

Derek pauses, listens. Two heartbeats in the house. “Is that Isaac?”

Scott nods. “Should I send him away?”

Derek shakes his head, then hesitates. “I know who’s killing people,” he says, finally, “but I don’t know how.”

Scott breathes out slowly, looking grim. “We’d better talk to Deaton.”

 

***

 

Derek watches Scott pace the length of examination room, dragging his hand through his hair, flexing his claws, looking like he might burst into tears or attack someone at equal odds. “I don’t _understand_ ,” he mutters.

Deaton, for once, seems entirely willing to repeat himself. “A few weeks ago, I found the body of Julia Bacari – that is, the darach – at the base of the Nemeton, her lifeblood long seeped into the roots.” 

“So she’s dead,” Isaac says, an echo of his alpha’s frustration. “Why is this bad news?” 

Scott stops abruptly. “Is she _possessing_ him?”

Deaton shakes his head. “A corrupted soul died on the Nemeton, tainting the spirit of the tree that you, Stiles, and Allison had just finished binding your souls to,” he says. “Ordinarily, the symbolic sacrifice would have been sufficient – a few nightmares, yes, but nothing you couldn’t handle.” His grave countenance darkens further, grim. “This warped spirit is not satisfied with a willing symbol. It wants to collect on your promises, and now we know it’s started with Stiles.”

Scott finally collapses onto a stool beside the operating table, dropping his head into his hands. “We should never have done that ritual,” he says, sounding hollow. “If I’d known– if I’d had any _idea_ –”

“It was the only way,” Deaton says, gently.

Scott’s head snaps up. “Was it, though?” he says, sharp-eyed. “ _Really_?” Deaton’s eyebrows lift, and Scott continues. “Because we never told you where the Nemeton was, after the eclipse. You never told _us_ that you’d found Ms. Blake’s body there.” 

“I didn’t realize what had happened until you came to me with your findings,” says Deaton, unruffled. “I’ve never encountered anything like this, before.”

Derek notices that he doesn’t say anything about Scott’s first accusation, but he honestly doesn’t care, right now. There isn’t time. “Just tell us how to stop it,” he growls.

Deaton doesn’t look away from Scott. “The way to remove the spirit’s power is to remove the host body from the source, which is the awakened Nemeton,” he says. “The _problem_ is that the spirit won’t want to be moved. It’s stronger and faster than any shifter, and can’t be contained for transport with mountain ash. That magic interacts with the earth. Move the ash, destroy the circle.”

“So it has to be lured out of its territory,” Scott says, brow furrowed, “but without knowing it’s being lured?”

“Without knowing it’s being _removed_ ,” says Deaton. “You need a distraction. A good one.” 

As far as Derek knows, there’s only one thing that Stiles and his special friend both – allegedly – have their eye on.

“If it’s… distracted,” he says slowly, “would it feel itself being distanced from the source?”

“Eventually,” says Deaton. “I assume. It would depend on the distraction.”

“Can we just drug him?” Scott says hopefully.

“Maybe,” Deaton says. “I could try to put something together that might subvert the creature’s defenses.”

 _Maybe_. Dread curls in Derek’s stomach.

“Isaac,” he says, “I’m gonna need a favor.”

 

***

 

Stiles is headed inside after PE class – or something, probably, Derek doesn’t know his schedule – when he snags the boy’s arm on his way into the locker room, tugging him around the building with an impatient grip.

“Derek, what the hell–” Stiles starts, before Derek boxes him in against the wall. 

Stiles is all big eyes and soft mouth, and Derek tries not to think about how he could want this, not _this_ but something like this, someday, far in the future. It only makes what he’s doing that much more cruel.

So Derek says, “Let me take you out tonight.”

“Uh, what?” says Stiles, eyes getting somehow bigger. His flush brightens. “Like, taking out a target? Are you gonna kill me?” He scoffs, shaky and uncertain. “Come on, Derek, I thought we were doing better–”

Derek manages not to roll his eyes, instead allowing that hint of a smile – the one he always bites back when Stiles is ridiculous – show through. Stiles’s mouth drops open.

“No, Stiles, not take you out like a target,” says Derek. He leans in just a little closer, resting his hand on the wall beside Stiles’s head. “I want to take you to dinner.”

Stiles just gapes at him for a long moment, fish-faced. “Just so we’re clear,” he says haltingly, “because I know you’re a little rusty on the communication front. It kind of sounds like you’re saying… you want to go on a _date_. With… _me_?”

Derek flashes a hint of teeth. He knows it’s just as effective in his smile as in his growl. “That’s what I said,” he agrees, ignoring the way his stomach is rolling over with anxiety and guilt. 

Stiles swallows, and wets his lips, and swallows again, and says, “I, uh.. I mean, yeah. Sure. If you want.”

It’s probably the worst attempt at playing it cool Derek has ever seen. “I’ll pick you up after practice?” he says, leaning in close just to hear Stiles’s heart thump a little harder. This is all he’s going to get. He wants to savor it.

“Wait, from school?” Stiles starts a little. “I’ll be all sweaty and gross, dude.”

“So take a shower,” Derek says, dragging his nose along Stiles’s cheek, breathing hot in his ear and smirking when he whimpers. “Or don’t. I like the smell of you.”

Stiles exhales a shaky little, “H-holygod,” and Derek almost forgets, almost lets go and presses him into the wall. But he stops, pulls back and pats Stiles’s other cheek with his fingertips. Then he turns on his heel and lets Stiles watch him swagger away.

Fuck.

 

***

 

After school, Isaac picks Derek up while the others are at cross-country practice. Derek takes his time preparing, making sure everything is in place.

Stiles is not the only one gawking when the limo pulls up, but his jaw hits the sidewalk when Derek rolls down the window. “What the hell are you doing?” he asks as he approaches, ducking his head and hunching his shoulders like it might make them less conspicuous.

“Picking you up,” Derek says with his sharpest grin. “What do you think? It’s not the Camaro, but I did the best I could on short notice.”

It’s beautiful, the way Stiles unfolds with the breadth of his grin, his eyes big and bright, excited. Derek’s chest burns with shame.

“Well,” Stiles says. “Are you gonna let me in?”

Derek pushes the door open, sliding over in the seat so Stiles can climb inside. He’s immediately all over the interior, sliding the sunroof back and forth, pushing all the buttons, sliding down the privacy screen – “Woah, hey Isaac!” – and back up when Isaac grumbles, “Dude, come on, I don’t want to see this.”

Stiles glances back at Derek with a shy, disbelieving little smile – then says, “Oooh, minibar!”

He pouts when there’s no champagne in the fancy bottle, but makes a sound of delight when he finds the tiny icebox stocked exclusively with Dr Pepper. He sneaks another bewildered glance at Derek, who’s watching in forced-calm amusement, then pours some into a champagne flute, careful not to let it spill when he climbs back into the seat beside him. 

Derek pours himself a tumbler of water, taking a slow sip and looking at Stiles over the rim. “Are you going to make a toast?” he murmurs, gently teasing.

Stiles flushes, but gamely lifts his glass. “To, uh…” He swallows, then says, “To surprises.”

Derek feels his eyebrow twitch, but he nods, clinking his glass against Stiles’s and then downing his water. Stiles matches him, and finishes his own drink.

“So, where are we going?” Stiles says, putting down his empty champagne flute.

Derek flashes a quick, smug grin. “It’s a surprise.”

Stiles huffs, rolling his eyes. “Oh, right, of course,” he grumbles. “Should’ve known.”

The sedative should be working by now. Stiles fidgets under Derek’s gaze, nervous and entirely un-drugged. Deaton had assured him that this dose was strong enough to bring down livestock.

Derek is going to have to do something else.

“So,” says Stiles, wetting his lips. “Is this a, uh, light-topics-only date? Because most of what we talk about is usually pretty grim, so like, if we need to set some parameters–”

So Derek kisses him.

He tries to make it good, tries to make it the best kiss Stiles has ever had, because he deserves that, at least. Derek pours everything he has into it, everything he might have wanted with Stiles, someday, maybe, _so much_.

Stiles whimpers, clings and talks into the kiss because he’s Stiles, this is _Stiles_ , and Derek can hardly stand it, holds him like he’s something precious. Stiles will have none of that, pulling Derek down on top of him until they topple into the space between the seats and the icebox. 

Then he sobs against Derek mouth, says, “Oh no, oh god–” and they both still.

“Please, not _now_ ,” Stiles moans, and Derek realizes he’s not being addressed. Stiles presses his face into Derek’s shoulder and trembles, whispers, “Sorry.” Something _pulses_ , rocking the car with its force.

Stiles’s scent changes, and the trembling becomes shaking becomes _laughing_ , low and wicked. It goes against every instinct Derek has to hold on, but he stays close, presses Stiles down with his body, into the floor of the car. Stiles keeps laughing that hollow laugh, says, “Oh, _Derek_. I really didn’t think you had it in you.” He hums thoughtfully. “But then, this is a lot like what you did to poor Jennifer, isn’t it? All you’re good for, really.”

Derek doesn’t let himself listen, wraps his arms around Stiles’s middle and weighs him down. Stiles presses his hands to Derek’s chest, presses _up_ , and Derek keeps holding on, even when it feels like his arms are going to be pulled from their sockets. His fangs drop and grit against the pain, and then Stiles tips his fingers forward and they punch through the skin of Derek’s chest like it’s paper. He roars, can’t hold it in, and Stiles is laughing again, though it’s a little hysterical now, just a little desperate, and Derek thinks maybe that means if he can just hold on a moment longer–

Then Stiles _bites_ him, and there’s a bright spray of blood, and Derek thinks oh. Oh, he really is bad at fighting. How did he forget that?

Stiles’s hands slide down into his stomach, fingers twining with his entrails, grabbing and twisting. He drops his head from Derek’s neck with a mouth full of flesh, eyes closed, grin rapturous. Derek’s vision is greying, and all he can think is he’s sorry, Stiles, he’s so, so sorry–

Stiles freezes, tense all over, his fingers splaying. Derek feels him start to jerk back, then catch himself short of causing further damage. He spits out the mouthful of Derek and carefully, so carefully, untangles his hands from his insides. There’s a high-pitched keen of mindless panic slipping from his bloodstained lips, but Derek can’t quite move, can’t contract the shredded muscles of his stomach enough to pull away.

Stiles is still underneath him, so still that Derek’s not sure he’s alive, except he’s _talking_ , frantically, while Derek is just trying to breathe, each strangled exhale wet with blood. “Derek,” Stiles gasps, “Derek, oh my god, oh my god what did I– I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, why would you– you _knew_ , you fucking, fucking stupid were- _idiot_ oh my god, Derek, no, please no, don’t die, not you, _please_ not you–”

So Derek heals, slowly, painfully, because he has to. Stiles asked him to. Stiles doesn’t hate him, must not, or he’d shove Derek off him and leave him to die.

Stiles must see the wounds knitting, the blood stopping, no longer pouring from every wound, because he lets out a sob of relief, slippery hands knotting shaky in Derek’s shirt, holding on like Derek’s full weight isn’t enough to weigh him down.

As soon as Derek can, he struggles to sit up, to free Stiles of his bulk. When he sees Stiles’s face, something in him shatters, because Stiles is weeping, silent, choking tears, like he can’t breathe enough to make a sound. He doesn’t sit up with Derek, and when he sees him looking, he says, “Do it,” and tilts his chin back, setting his jaw.

Derek almost asks, _Do what_ , but he knows. He knows what Stiles is feeling, that incredible, all-encompassing guilt, the absolute desperation to just _stop_. “Stiles,” he says, voice raspy from screaming, “I’m not going to kill you.”

Stiles opens his mouth like he’s going to ask why not, then stops, slumps. “Yeah,” he says. “I shouldn’t have asked you to– sorry. I know you don’t want to kill anyone.”

He sits up, wiping at the blood dripping from his mouth with the back of his sleeve. Then, without warning, he grabs for the empty crystal decanter, slamming it into the bar to shatter the base. Derek lunges forward to grab his arm before he can bring the edge to his throat. “ _Stiles_ –”

“Let me do it,” Stiles cries, jerking desperately in his arms, trying to get closer to the improvised blade. “Let me– please, I can’t, I just want to– don’t make me live with this, Derek, _please_ –”

Derek wrests the bottle away from him, throws it over his shoulder before he tackles Stiles towards the front of the limo, holding the boy tightly while he struggles and jerks in his arms.

“Let me die,” Stiles sobs, and his grief closes up Derek’s throat. “Just let me die, I want to _die_.”

“I’m sorry,” Derek says, pulling Stiles close to his chest. “I’m so sorry, Stiles. I can’t let you do that.”

 

***

 

Cora opens the limo door. “Heard someone finally grew some balls and killed the bad guys,” she says, and Stiles just _crumples_. Derek, unthinking, actually snarls at her. “Okay,” she says, lifting her hands. “I’m gonna go get a second room.”

“No, just get his bag,” Derek says roughly, tilting his head towards her without looking away from Stiles. “Tell Isaac to call Scott.”

When the door slams shut, Derek strokes Stiles’s back as he gasps in fits and starts. “Come on, breathe,” he says, soft. “Can you match me? That’s good.” Stiles hiccups and shakes and clenches and unclenches his fists and slowly drags himself back together in Derek’s arms.

After a while, Derek says, “Do you think you can stand?” Stiles considers it, then nods, and they stumble out of the car together, clumsy, Stiles because he’s cried himself sick and Derek because he’s not even close to fully healed. 

Stiles can see Derek’s wounds properly out in the late afternoon light. His face twitches like he might break again, but he holds firm, thins his lips and looks pale, withdrawn, almost empty.

Derek already feels vastly separated from him, and they’ve only just broken contact.

Isaac’s leaning on the side of the car. He offers the phone to Stiles. “Scott wants to talk.”

Stiles looks at the phone for a long moment, then turns and ambles vaguely towards the motel. Derek follows just a step behind, within arm’s reach in case Stiles tries anything.

Cora meets them in the hall, eyes passing politely over Stiles as she leads them to their room. It’s nondescript, reeks of cleaning fluids and beneath that, sweat and sex and a tinge of mildew. Typical housing smells.

Stiles makes for the bathroom. Derek follows him in, and Stiles rounds on him, eyes sparking weakly. “What the fuck, man?” he hisses.

“Stiles, I just watched you try to slit your own throat,” Derek says, trying to keep his voice even. “I’m not going to leave you alone.”

Stiles mumbles something about creeper wolves and just needing to fucking shower, doesn’t want to whip his dick out in front of some perv – like he thinks his crass language will scare Derek away. Derek just closes the door behind him, leans on the wall and politely averts his eyes.

Still bitching, Stiles attends to business, though the way he lingers makes Derek wonder if he’d been very right to follow him in here. While Stiles showers, Derek does his best to clean himself up at the sink. His shirt’s ruined, so he strips it off, dropping it into the trash just as the shower shuts off. 

Derek is immediately certain that he can’t see Stiles without his clothes again, not so soon after what he’s done to him. He stalks out of the bathroom before Stiles yanks the curtain back, leaving the door open behind him.

Cora and Isaac are waiting for them at the small table in the corner. “I have to get the limo back to the garage,” says Isaac.

Derek nods, digs in his pocket and hands over a wad of cash, slightly damp with blood. “This should cover the damages,” he says, trying to muster an apologetic tone with little success.

“I’ll dump some barbecue in there to cover the blood, blame it on last night’s fare.” Lucky the cleaners of Beacon Hills don’t ask many questions. He glances at Stiles, who’s emerged from the bathroom in only marginally ruined trousers, and says, “I hope– good luck, man.” Stiles doesn’t answer, so Isaac ducks his head, makes for the door.

“Isaac,” Stiles says, right as he steps out. Isaac turns back immediately, and Stiles continues, “I need the box under my bed.” He wets his lips, adds, “Tell Scott.”

He doesn’t look at any of them. Derek can’t look anywhere else.

Isaac nods, so serious, and says, “I will.” Then he goes. 

Derek puts a hand to the small of Stiles’s back, between his shoulder blades, and urges him toward a bed. Stiles flops on top of the blankets, face-down in a pillow, and doesn’t move for a long time.


End file.
